


Desiderium

by sansakatara



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24665524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansakatara/pseuds/sansakatara
Summary: In the distance,  was both Winterfell and Jon.
Relationships: Ary, Arya Stark & Ned Stark, Arya Stark and Jon Snow, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark & Robb Stark & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Desiderium

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Sansa's memory of the snowball fight she had with Arya and Bran.

Atop her chestnut mare, Arya stared longingly across the snow-covered moors.  
Winterfell.  
Arya chewed her lip. She had been so close, before. If the Frey’s hadn’t…. she would have been reunited with Robb and her lady mother again. But instead…  
She still dreamt of it, sometimes. Robb’s brutalised corpse, and where his own head should have been, Grey’s Wind.  
In her dreams, Grey Wind’s eyes seemed to be Robb’s instead- blue and accusing.

 _I wanted to help,_ she wanted to cry - as if she were some little girl and not a woman grown. _I did, but he wouldn’t let me_.  
It was true. Arya had tried running from the Hound, had tried running as fast as Mycah must have done all that time ago, but he had knocked her out. If he hadn’t, maybe…  
But Arya knew that was stupid. She had tried saving her father, but that had not stopped Joffrey having Lord Stark’s head cut off anyway.

She had not seen it. She had fought just as she had fought with the Hound, but Yoren had pressed her face against his clothes. And she had not seen her mother’s death either, but she soon learned how it had happened. It had been a few days, or maybe even a week. Arya could not have said, because the days seemed to bleed into one another, with her locked in grief. They had come upon a campsite and had found some Frey’s. Sons or grandsons it made no matter, but Arya still remembered the sound of their laughter as they jeered about how Lady Catelyn had begged for the life of her precious son, and how her own body had been thrown in the Trident.  
This time, the Hound did not pull her back.

With the death of Robb and her mother, Arya was alone. Theon had killed Bran and Rickon and taken Winterfell. She had heard whispers of Sansa, tales of how ‘Winterfell’s daughter’ had fled from the Red Keep the same day as Joffrey’s death. They had spoken of Arya’s sister as if she were a witch, and that she and the Imp had conspired together to kill His Grace, and Sansa had left him behind. But for all the whispers of Sansa, she might have been gone as well. As for her aunt Lysa, she and the Hound had arrived at the Vale- only to learn that Lady Arryn had died.  
If everyone Arya knew was dead like Robb or lost like Sansa, then perhaps Arya Stark might as well be dead too.  
The House of Black and White had given her refuge, training, and the promise of a full stomach each night. That alone had been tantalising for Arya – who had known the uncertainty of hunger for years by then.  
For that, they would have wanted one thing in return. The thing that Arya ultimately couldn’t give.  
Needle.  
Well, it wasn’t really Needle they wanted. But the Kindly Man had told her that if she were to become No One, she could not keep it.  
Needle belonged to Arya Stark, a girl from Westeros. A lord’s daughter, and sister to a king. A proud name he had told her, but it would do her no good here. Nor would her sword.

She had tried throwing it away. She did, really.  
But she couldn’t, and perhaps that should have told her that the Kindly Man was right about her.  
Needle had been all she had left of Winterfell. Apart from her memories of them, of Mother and Father and Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon…. and Jon.

Arya’s bastard brother, whom she had always loved the best. They looked alike, too. Arya remembered telling Jon once offhandedly that she thought she was ugly. It was hard not to, when her lord father’s bannermen would compliment him on what a beautiful daughter he had in Sansa- but nothing like that was ever said of Arya. It had been after one of these visits when she had said this to Jon. In response, Jon had asked if she thought he was ugly.  
Arya had scrunched up her nose. _No,_ she had said. _Why? Well,_ he smiled. _You look like me, little sister. So, if you don’t think I’m ugly, then you can’t be either, can you?_  
He always knew how to comfort her, even when she hadn’t been asking for it.

And now Winterfell was theirs again, and Jon was King in the North- having taken up their brother’s title.  
Jon was at Winterfell. If Sansa was alive still, then perhaps she might have heard the news and headed North as well. Arya wanted to see her sister again.  
But her longing for a sister- a sister that stirred tangled feelings of both resentment and love; like a flood that threatened to break loose - did not equal the longing she felt to see Jon again.

As she continued to stare across the moors, snowflakes brushed against her cheeks, gentle as the last hug her father had given her.  
She remembered a morning like this when she had been four, maybe five. Bran was the baby still, Rickon not born yet. She had been on her own in her room, pouting. She had been sent there after getting into trouble for something she couldn’t remember now. She probably hadn’t done anything anyway. Septa Mordane just liked to pick on her and preferred Sansa, and she had said as much to Jon when he had snuck in to see her. Arya’s face had been twisted in a scowl, as she had spat the words. A naughty part of her sometimes wanted to spit at Septa Mordane too, but not really. Besides, she did not want to think how many days she would have to spent in her bedchambers if she dared do that.

Jon had listened to Arya. She liked how he would listen to her when she was upset without interrupting, his face solemn as if he were weighing her every word carefully. He reminded Arya of their lord father sometimes, in those moments. When she had finished, he had shrugged and said that it was just as well that she had been sent to her room, because he could tell her a secret. Arya had raised her eyebrows and tugged at Jon’s sleeves. _What?_ She had asked. Jon pointed out her window, where snowflakes drifted. _Well, if you taste one of the snowflakes, you’ll see they taste like sugar._  
 _What? Don’t be stupid,_ Arya retorted. _Snow just tastes like snow._  
 _I’m serious, it does. Try it._ Jon’s face had looked so earnest,  
So, Arya did, poking her tongue to catch the first snowflake. She had been right. It didn’t taste like sugar at all, and she had grimaced at the taste.  
Jon was grinning, and that had made Arya laugh- her upset over Septa Mordane now forgotten.  
Jon could make her laugh better than anyone.  
And now Jon was at Winterfell. Jon was at Winterfell, and Arya was finally going home.


End file.
